


Redemption

by wargoddess



Series: The Templar Canticles [6]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age II
Genre: Established Relationship, Gen, Likely to be jossed by DA3, M/M, No Sex, Post-Canon, References to Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-15
Packaged: 2017-11-29 09:54:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/685635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wargoddess/pseuds/wargoddess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a trip to Ferelden, Cullen happens across a familiar face from the Gallows' uglier days.  Now he must confront his own complicity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption

**Author's Note:**

> Re the warning tag -- no rape occurs in the story, but there are heavy references to sexual abuse, torture, murder, etc., that occurred within the game canon. Also note, this one's almost purely Cullen-centric and there's no sex. And it's really fucking grim. So you've been warned.

     Knight Commander Cullen does not consider himself to be a complicated man.  Quite the opposite; his very simplicity gives him a purity of purpose that few other Templars possess.  There are only three things he cares about:  his duty to Chantry and Maker, protecting the world from maleficarum, and, lately, Carver Hawke.  As a Chantry orphan he is unburdened by family considerations, property, or even a family name; he has nothing to pass on to the children he never expects to have, and this does not trouble him.  And as a survivor of both Uldred's Rebellion and Meredith's Madness, he is unburdened by doubts about the importance of his duty.

     He is not without _regrets_ , however.

#

     The Viscount has brought them to Ferelden, along with a small army of functionaries and guards, on a diplomatic mission.  Kirkwall needs allies, and Ferelden is the only other nation which has neither taken sides in the Mage-Templar War nor lost its Circle.  Ironic, considering.  Cullen has warned the Viscount that he does not get on well with Ferelden's Knight Commander; Gregoir saw him at his worst, long ago.  And he is not certain he could bear being within the walls of Kinloch again --  So they agree that Cullen will stay in Denerim and meet with Ferelden's Grand Cleric, while Knight Captain Carver travels to Kinloch in his stead with a small party of Kirkwall Templars.  Meanwhile, the Viscount will try to wrangle a mutual defense agreement from Ferelden's notoriously stubborn ex-Templar king.

     Cullen dislikes being unable to travel with Carver.  They have watched one anothers' backs since Meredith tried to kill them.  Still, they've been together long enough at this point that a respite is not a bad thing in itself.  Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that -- or abstinence makes the fucking sweeter, as Carver embarrassed Cullen by saying out loud, though it's true enough. 

     More unpleasant is the experience of being in Ferelden again -- his first visit back since being shipped off in disgrace some ten years before.  Denerim, which once seemed crowded and amazing to him, now seems small and crude in comparison with Kirkwall's leftover Tevinter grandeur.  The city is still rebuilding after the Battle of Denerim, but even in its half-finished state it's clear the end product will be just as roughly-hewn and crumbly as before.  For the first time Cullen understands why the world thinks of Ferelden as a land of barbarians.  They're not even trying.

     Still, he smiles as he walks toward the Chantry and smells wet dog, and when he passes through the market and hears a child speaking in Lothering brogue.  Carver has only a touch of that accent, though he is quintessentially Fereldan in every other way.  Perhaps Cullen has missed the barbarity, in spite of himself.

     Then a familiar face snags his peripheral vision, and when he glances around to identify it, he stops in his tracks.

     There, on the other side of the market square, a man is helping to carry paving-stones into a half-constructed building, under the watchful eye of the dwarf who probably owns the property.  The man is younger than Carver, Rivaini-dark, moderately built, and dressed in stained workman's clothing; his black hair is longer than it used to be, caught in a little queue at the nape of his neck.  But Cullen remembers his naturally-earnest, perpetually-mournful face.  He will never forget it, because the faces of all blood mages lodge in his memory like stones in ice. 

     Alain.

     Here.  Grunting with effort as he puts down the stones he was carrying to help another man shift a beam-timber which has slipped off its pile.  Alain really puts his back and legs into the effort, his face sheening with sweat as they work, his thighs flexing hard enough that Cullen can see the muscles beneath his thin old pants.  As if he cannot simply levitate the beam into place; as Cullen recalls, Alain is a force mage too.  But of course Alain cannot use magic, because he is pretending to be an ordinary man.  As ordinary men must, he works with the other men, who have all come over to help shift the beam now, all of them heaving in unison, until finally they get it where it needs to be.

     As the men break apart, murmuring in weary triumph and patting one another on the back, someone claps Alain on the shoulder and he smiles in that shy way Cullen remembers, back when he used to smile.

     Cullen remembers _when_ Alain stopped smiling, not long after his internment in the Gallows.  Cullen remembers why, too.

     It is in this moment that Alain turns and happens to meet Cullen's glare.  He stops, his smile vanishing.  There is a flash of instant recognition on his face, and fear.  Cullen's muscles tense.  His gauntleted fist clenches, ready to throw a Cleanse, or a Smite if he must.  Mages are at their most dangerous when they are afraid.

     But the fear fades from Alain's expression, as quickly as it appeared.  What replaces it is -- something that Cullen cannot interpret.  A grim sort of resignation.  A weight which was not there before, even while he struggled to lift the beam. 

     He nods, this blood mage; he _nods_ at Cullen as if they are nothing more than old friends, or old enemies whose quarrel no longer matters.

     Then he turns to pick up the paving-stones, and gets back to work.

     _What?_   Cullen takes a step closer, barely noticing as he jostles a woman carrying a satchel of turnips.  His body quivers; it is strange and wrong to ready himself for battle and then do nothing.  _What?_

     But he cannot deny the evidence of his eyes.  Alain does not attack, or flee, or draw a blade to slash his palm and summon the Maker's most accursed children to do his bidding.  He simply picks up the stack of stones -- using his legs and not his back to lift; he's no newcomer to this labor -- and carts them over to where they belong.  He cannot do magic like this, winded, with his hands full of something other than a staff and his concentration on something other than a spell.  Cullen -- one hand halfway to his sword, the rest of him poised to flatten the marketplace -- is more likely to disrupt the peace.

     Well.  Alain has clearly made an effort to present no threat.  Cullen can do the same, at least until Alain shows his true colors.

     He makes himself take a deep breath for calm.  Then he moves to somewhere less obtrusive -- the shadow of a nearby derelict house, where he is less likely to annoy shopkeepers and frighten passersby.  (Though he has already noticed that the passersby here do not flinch at the sight of him.  This is not Kirkwall.)  He's still in plain sight of the workers, though, and he knows that Alain knows he's there.  He folds his arms, and watches, and waits.

     After an hour or so there is a change.  The men all exhale and stop working and settle on rocks or the ground to rest, some of them pulling out bundles of food and sharing them 'round.  Alain comes out of the building with a pasty in one hand and a rag 'round his neck, which he uses to mop his sweaty face.  He murmurs something to the dwarf, who nods.  Then -- Cullen tenses -- Alain crosses the square to meet him.

     "Knight Commander," he says as he stops before Cullen.  He is casual, unafraid.  "I can't say it's good to see you again."

     Cullen holds very still, taking note of everything around him.  The Orlesian woman taking inventory at her stall, at the edge of the market.  Two children and a dog trotting in circles, playing some inane game.  A pair of sisters at the Chantry gate, arguing.  It is the small details that blood mages always miss when they impose constructed realities upon their victims' minds.  The alert man can spot these flaws.

     "Alain," Cullen says.  Formerly of the Gallows, trained in the Starkhaven Circle, raised there after being taken by force from a caravan of Rivaini traders near Ansburg.  "I would have expected you to be leading a Black Feather cell, not hiding among the unwashed backwater masses."

     He is caught off guard when Alain smiles, though it is only one side of the man's mouth that lifts, and only briefly.  The smile does not touch his eyes.  "The Feathers use blood magic," he says.  "I don't."

     "You do."

     "Not anymore, I don't."

     Cullen snarls the words.  "Once a blood mage, _always_ a blood mage."

     Alain opens his mouth to reply, then he seems to grow tired.  "I have a request.  Several, actually."

     Cullen narrows his eyes.  "You are hardly in a position to make demands. But speak."

     Alain shakes his head.  "Let me finish out my shift," he says.  "Sunset today.  I don't get paid until the end of it, and I've a bill to pay up.  Let me pay it.  Then -- "  His jaw flexes.  "If you've come to take me to the local Circle, don't.  Just kill me instead.  I won't fight you unless you try to take me in alive."

     _What?_

     Cullen just stares at him, and perhaps Alain thinks he will refuse, because the mage sets his jaw.  "I don't _want_ to fight you.  But I'm tired of running, and..."  He looks away.  "I won't live on the Templars' sufferance again.  That's worse than death.  So I'll see you back here at sunset, unless you can't bring yourself to wait that long, and you can tell me then if you agree to the rest."

     And with that, he turns and walks back to the construction site.  He sits down beside another man who casts a suspicious eye at Cullen and murmurs to Alain; Alain shakes his head and tucks in to his pasty.

     It is, Cullen thinks, a less than ideal last meal.

#

     It's foolish for Cullen to believe anything a blood mage says.  And yet.

     He was due to meet the Grand Cleric that afternoon, so he risks leaving the market area long enough to send a messenger to the Chantry to make apologies.  He does not tell the truth, because that would bring half the Denerim Templars to the square; instead he says only that he was unavoidably delayed and will convey his apologies in person on the morrow.  As Cullen returns to the market, he reflects that he _should_ want other Templars about.  A blood mage is a difficult foe to face at the best of times, and this one is alert to his presence and surrounded by potential thralls and victims.

     Still.  Cullen has enough confidence in his own abilities that he feels able to handle Alain alone, should it become necessary.  And... well.  The market is at peace, everyone is safe.  Bringing in a horde of Templars will only incite panic, and perhaps a riot.  He cannot take the risk that Alain will escape in the confusion.

     This is what he tells himself.

     He half expects Alain to be gone when he takes up his old position near the construction site, but no -- the mage is still there, still doing unmagelike hard labor.  So at the end of the shift, the workers line up before the dwarf, who hands them each a pouch and sends them on their way, and Alain comes back to him, wiping his hands on the rag this time.

     "Well, Knight Commander?" The mage's expression is unreadable.  Cullen remembers him being much more transparent, once.  "Do you agree to my requests?"

     "Yes," says Cullen.  He leaves it at that.  The Qunari are right about mages' words being corruption in themselves.  Best to avoid discussion at all, and keep things brief if one must.

     And instead of attacking -- Cullen will never stop expecting that -- Alain nods and turns, gesturing for Cullen to walk with him.  He does this so easily, so fearlessly, that for a moment he leaves Cullen standing there, gaping at his back.  Then Cullen remembers that he is a Templar and this is a _blood mage_ , and he moves to follow, keeping Alain in sight so he can spot any false move.

     "No," says Alain, stopping and turning to him.  He's frowning; Cullen tenses again.  "If you don't walk with me it will look like you're about to kill me or something.  I mean, you are," and he _smiles_ ; it is utterly perverse.  "But I'd rather you not scare half the neighborhood by looking the part.  This is Denerim, after all."

     "I do not care what this _looks like_ ," Cullen snaps.

     Alain's smile fades again.  "Right," he says, sighing and turning to walk again.  "Fine, then."

     They proceed away from the market district and the docks, down alleys hung with ragged washing on clotheslines and along walkways with more wooden slats missing than intact.  Alain keeps his pace steady, his hands in sight, which annoys Cullen unreasonably.  Still, it allows him to relax just a little, and he straightens as he walks so that, as Alain has put it, he does not look quite so much like a murderer about to strike.  Even if that's true.

     _It is not murder to kill a blood mage_ , says the Meredith in his mind.  _It is mercy_.

     Yes.

     "Where are you taking me?" Cullen demands after awhile.  The walls are only getting dingier, the alleys more strewn with garbage.  They're near the alienage, he thinks; he doesn't know the city well.

     "I told you.  I need to pay a bill."

     Cullen scowls.  "You're keeping some woman."

     Alain sighs.  "No.  I wouldn't take up with a woman anyhow.  No mage with a heart would have children, knowing what they'd face if they showed magic, or even if they didn't."

     Cullen thinks of Carver and feels an odd disquiet.  "A man, then."  Or a boy, too young to make a man's decisions, easy to manipulate and enslave even without magic.  He puts nothing past blood mages.

     "No one, Knight Commander.  I'm not taking care of urchins, I'm not keeping a roof over some elder's head, I'm not secretly keeping a sheep in my basement for nefarious purposes other than blood magic.  I'm not walking you into a Feather ambush, either; I'm sure you've thought up that one."

     And Cullen almost stumbles to a halt, because he _hasn't_ considered that.  It should have been the first thing on his mind -- but he apparently _believed_ Alain's assertion that he wasn't involved with the rebels.  Cullen should not have believed a blood mage for any reason.

     He recovers before Alain notices.

     They turn a corner, and abruptly Alain stops at an unobtrusive door.  He knocks, and after a moment it is opened by a middle-aged man:  middling in height, blond, with the stooped shoulders of a dock-worker or -- ah.  A construction worker, maybe, turned landlord.  "Ah, Alain," he says, and Cullen blinks.  Alain used his real name? 

     "Evening, Gavrel," says Alain, and then he hands the man his belt pouch, which includes his day's pay and apparently more besides.  "Just wanted to give you this."

     "Bit early, eh?  Rent's not due 'til next week."

     Alain shrugs.  "I won't be around next week."

     Gavrel is staring at Cullen, whom Alain has not bothered to introduce.  Cullen gazes back impassively.  Let the man think what he wants; in the meantime Cullen will protect him from the menace he's had living under his roof.  After a moment, Gavrel grunts and focuses on the pouch, frowning a bit as he weighs it in one hand.  "You gave me too much, man."

     "For your trouble," Alain says, and Cullen realizes he means _the trouble of cleaning up my body_.  Then Alain turns away, waving jauntily.  "Tell the missus I said thank you for the pie; it was amazing, but you know that.  Good night."

     And that's it.  They walk off with Gavrel still grumbling about being overpaid; Fereldans.  Alain heads up a set of stairs precariously attached to the building, and keys open the door of what turns out to be a small, barely-furnished one-room apartment.  Cullen -- one hand on his sword as he steps in -- sees hay poking out of the bed's mattress, and clean clothes folded neatly atop the single dresser in the room.  There's a large pile of books in one corner, but no bookcase to hold them.  None of the books makes Cullen's senses prickle; not grimoires, then.  One of them, in fact, he recognizes from the cover:  a rather tawdry Orlesian romance that made the rounds in the Gallows recruit barracks a few years back.  It's got a scrap of cloth stuck in it midway, as a bookmark.

     When the door closes, Alain sits down on the floor in front of him and waits.  Just like that.

     Cullen looks carefully at the floor.  Perhaps there's a rune etched underneath the wood, which will activate when Alain's blood touches it.  "What was that about?" he asks.

     "What, me paying my rent?"  Alain shrugs.  "I just like paying bills."

     "You _like paying bills_."

     Alain looks a bit defensive.  "Yes.  I like that it's money I earned.  I like that I _did something_ to earn it, instead of..."  He frowns, seeming to grope for words.  "Instead of _being something_.  I hate that people see me first for what I _am_ , instead of what I _do_."

     That is utterly nonsensical.  Cullen spies a mark on the room's wall.  Are there other marks?  Do they form a pattern?  "You are a mage," he says, irritated into continuing the conversation.  "You _do_ magic.  This cannot be denied."

     "I never asked to be born a mage.  I just learned magic to protect myself from demons, and so that other people would be safe from me.  And because the Circle said I had to, or have my soul burned out with the brand."  He shrugs.  "I don't even like _using_ magic, when I don't have to.  It feels like cheating at... everything."

     It makes no sense to have this conversation.  And yet Cullen does, letting his lip curl and beginning to walk a circuit of the room, to vent restless energy and to check for signs of evil.  "Did you also take up blood magic because you had to?"

     He is surprised by the look of shame that crosses Alain's face.  "At the time, I thought so."

     "Yes.  Your kind always do."

     Alain's expression turns hard, and Cullen readies himself.  They attack when they are afraid, and also when they are angry.  But the mage says only, "You know exactly why I began using blood magic, Knight Commander.  Tell me you wouldn't have done the same, under the circumstances. Tell me you wouldn't have tried anything to protect yourself."

     Cullen stops in his tracks.

     "There is no excuse for blood magic," he makes himself say.  But he knows his voice lacks conviction.

     Alain sighs.

     "You're right," he says, to Cullen's surprise.  "You're absolutely right."

     Cullen isn't sure what to say to that.  He says nothing, and Alain says nothing, and a long and bruised silence falls.

     "I hear you've taken up with Ser Carver," Alain says after awhile, which makes Cullen twitch and focus on his quarry again.

     "I have," he replies, carefully. "He is my Knight Captain, now."

     Alain nods.  "He's a good man.  A good Templar.  You expect that from the ones with mage blood, but it doesn't always hold true, you know.  Some of the worst Templars are mageborn."

     And Cullen thinks:  _Karras came from a mage family._

     So did Meredith.

     Well.

     "He helped me, once."  Alain is looking at his hands, though his eyes are really off somewhere else, maybe Par Vollen, maybe the Deep Roads.  "When he heard rumors that, that there would be,"  and he takes a deep breath, pushes through, "that Ser Karras had planned a 'party' in my chambers, one evening.  I hadn't heard about it."  The smile that crosses Alain's lips this time is a shadow, thin and dark.  "Always my problem, you know.  I was never very good at making the right kinds of friends, or I would've heard.  Not like the Templars ever bothered to _hide_ what they did to us."

     Cullen doesn't want to hear this.

     "So Ser Carver, he shows up at my door one evening and asks to play cards.  Some game I never heard of.  Wicked Grace, I think it was called?  I let him in because, well."  Alain licks his lips.  "Karras had already been... asking for things. I thought Carver would at least be better than that."

     Cullen is very still.  His thoughts are still.  If Alain wants to use blood magic on him, now is the time.

     "But he didn't want... that.  He just taught me how to play, and then made me play with him, all night.  I didn't know what the Void he was about; I was terrified.  I pretended to lose even when I could've won.  He's kind of scary, you know."  Cullen knows.  "But then 'round midnight, someone else knocked on the door -- several someones, and they were drunk -- and _he_ answered it for me. I heard him say, 'He's busy, and I don't share.'  Then I understood."  Alain pauses for a moment.  "Maker."

     Yes.  The Maker had been kind to them both.

     "Karras got me later, of course.  Inevitable, really; Ser Carver couldn't be everywhere.  There were others who needed his protection more, so... I'm glad he did what he could."

     Cullen flinches.

     Alain looks sad and a little nostalgic, his thoughts somewhere across the sea.  "Nobody cares what happens to mages, to blood mages.  But he did.  A good man."

     Yes. 

     After a moment, Alain shifts and sighs.  "Sorry.  Talking your ear off."  He falls silent now, and waits patiently for Cullen to kill him.

     Stepping in front of him, Cullen draws his sword.  It feels heavier than usual.  Alain's just sitting there.

     "Why did you not run?" he asks.  He is _not_ stalling.  "Why do you not fight?"

     Alain gives him an odd look.  "I told you; I don't _want_ to run, or fight.  My whole life..."  He sighs.  "I'm _tired_.  Does that really sound so strange?"

     It does not.  Cullen licks his lips.  A blood mage wants to die.  They _should_ all die.  Why does he feel such reluctance to fulfill this creature's wish?  "This need not end in your death, Alain."  Why is he _hesitating_?  "The Circle, here in Ferelden -- "

     "No."

     " -- I was posted there once, it is far more lenient -- "

     " _No._ "  Alain is glaring at him.  Is there anything left of the timid boy Cullen remembers?  Or has it all been burned away, replaced with... whatever he is now? A man who takes pleasure in the mundanities of living.  A man not afraid to soil his hands with honest labor.  A man who is willing to die, if his only alternative is to live in fear.

     "You _agreed_ ," Alain says, his voice harsh.  "You _said_ you would kill me; why are you dithering?  I know you've done it before.  They still talk about what you did at Kinloch, here.  They say you were unhinged at the time -- but now, after Kirkwall, I know you weren't.  After Meredith, I know what madness looks like."  He sounds bitter.  "What you have?  That's just hate."

     Cullen's whole body jerks, as with a blow.  He actually has to take a step back or lose his balance.  He stares at Alain, his sword cold and heavy in his suddenly-nerveless hand.

     Then he pivots where he stands, and walks out of the apartment.

#

     Carver is not here.  Why is Carver not here?  Cullen paces in the guest suite of the royal palace late into the night, running his hands through his hair, thinking things that make no sense.

     _You were never mad._

     There is no point in prayer.  The Maker is gone and does not care what happens to mortalkind.  The Maker's Bride does, but what must she think of him?  She was a slave once.  She knows what it is to be helpless at the hands of others, to suffer without respite or hope.  She, too, chose to risk death rather than endure a moment more in chains.  She, too, did reprehensible things -- of course she did; was it not war? -- to keep those chains from ever touching her again.

     "I will not," he whispers, gripping his hair, clutching his head.  "I will _not_ allow -- corrupt thoughts -- "

     But he is experienced enough to know that Alain used no magic on him.  If there is corruption in Cullen's thoughts, it is of his own making.

     _That's just hate._

     The Qunari are so right to sew their mages' mouths shut.

#

     "You look troubled, Knight Commander."

     Cullen puts on a smile as he sits at the conference table, between some minor functionary whose name he cannot remember and some Arl's heir who is apparently dabbling in the priestly life.  Cullen does not much like Ferelden's Grand Cleric, and it takes all his wit not to let that show through in his manner.  Part of it is that he cannot help comparing her to Elthina, which would leave practically any Chantry mother wanting.  Part of it, though, is things she does -- like trying to prompt him into a personal conversation in the middle of a room of strangers, at the start of a business meeting.  The woman has no _finesse_.

     "Not at all," he lies easily.  "I simply ate something that agreed with me poorly, and spent much of the night regretting it."

     Minor Functionary laughs, covering her mouth with a handkerchief in a manner that went out of fashion in Kirkwall five years before.  "A pity you did not go with your -- " She pauses, meaningfully, because of course they have heard of him and Carver and they do not approve, and they want him to know that they do not approve, " -- Knight Captain, to Kinloch.  Perhaps there you could have had a mage heal your ills and allow you a safe night's rest."

     "'Tis a pity indeed," Cullen says, smiling, because it would take the Maker Himself to make Cullen feel ashamed of Carver, and if the Maker dared Cullen would repudiate Him on the spot.  "But I would not have asked, in any case.  It is never wise to grow dependent on magic, when herbs or simple endurance will do instead."

     "Hmm, yes," says the little arling, an exceptionally pretty young man who looks at Cullen as if he would _not_ disapprove, if Cullen were to drop Carver and take up with him instead.  He smiles, which is probably meant to be charming and which Cullen just finds irritating.  "And of course the Knight Commander is known for his endurance." 

     Oh, the most delicate of emphases there on the lattermost word.  If Cullen had not spent the past few years sparring with Bran, he would never have noticed it.  But Bran is a master of his art, and this callow boy is a blundering simpleton in comparison.

     The Grand Cleric smiles at the boy indulgently, plainly missing the double entendre.  What _is_ it with Grand Clerics and their pet princelings?  "Now, now.  Knight Commander Cullen is also known as a man of great faith.  He would never allow one of those loathsome beasts to infect him with their taint."

     It takes Cullen a full ten breaths to realize she has not suddenly delivered a non-sequitur about darkspawn.  She means _mages_.

     Meanwhile, the conversation goes on.  "It does seem," says the Functionary, "that our first priority is to maintain our loyalty to Val Royeaux, despite our respective governments'... intractability.  Our lands might have been judged Dissonant, but there is still hope for reconciliation after this damnable mage rebellion is put down."

     _Dissonant_ is what Val Royeaux now calls Ferelden, Kirkwall, and any land whose Templars or rulers have refused to slaughter their mages out of hand.  In the lands which remain loyal to the Chantry, Orsino's Lament has become reality.

     "So it would seem, hmm, _appropriate_ ," the Functionary continues, "for the Templars in both our lands to continue obeying Chantry tenets.  Just... discreetly."

     "I can see no way that this might be done," Cullen says, frowning and wondering what the woman is about.  He frowns too because -- well, is she really proposing that the Templars _discreetly_ kill mageling babes in their cribs?  He decides that this cannot be what she suggested; he misheard.  "In the first because mages cannot ever be permanently 'dealt with'; more are born every day.  In the second, it is folly itself to denude ourselves of magic with the Qunari sitting at our flank.  I have seen the power of their saarebaas, madam, if you will recall.  Between that and their black powder and their fanaticism, we shall need every possible weapon to defend ourselves."

     "We had little magic in the days of the Exalted March on the Dales," says the little arling, waving a hand dismissively.  "And now the proud elves eat crumbs from our tables or spread their legs in our houses of ill repute.  It will soon be so for the Qunari, no doubt.  Do you not agree, Grand Cleric?"  He smiles at her, warm and cocksure.

     " _Magic_ ," says the Grand Cleric, her face contorting as she all but spits the word.  She says it too loudly; they all stare at her.  "It is our tolerance for magic which has brought us to this point.  If we kill all mages as soon as they are discovered, they will have no time to make children, and eventually the taint will breed itself out of our race.  We _must_ do this; it is a curse and a temptation to evil!  We do _not_ need magic to face the heathens.  We have _faith_ , and that will be more than enough."

     Minor Functionary beams and says, "Hear, hear!"  Arling claps in delight, earning the Grand Cleric's approving smile.

     Cullen looks at them all and thinks, _Barbarians_.

#

     He deliberately passes through the market on the way back to the palace.  Alain is still there working, to his utter amazement.  Cullen sees him sitting on the beam he helped lift the other day, which has now been set in place as the central support of the building; he is hammering something.  As Cullen watches, Alain's hammer slips and he bangs his thumb, curses, and sucks on it for a moment, grimacing.  When he pulls it out of his mouth to survey the damage, Cullen catches a glimpse of red.  The nail must be broken.  The blood mage is bleeding.

     But Alain does not use the power in his thumb to build the house in seconds.  He doesn't blow it up, either, in a fit of pique.  He just sighs and resumes work, setting another nail in place and picking up the hammer again.

     He has not seen Cullen.  Cullen moves on.

#

     There can be no telling Carver about this.  How can he?  Carver's father, brother, and sister were mages.  Carver himself has dedicated his life to, risked his life over, the belief that mages are people and deserve to be treated as such.

     They _are_ people.  Cullen knows that now, believes it enough that he sees where Meredith went wrong, believes it enough that he believes himself worthy of taking Meredith's place.  He understands that what he saw in Uldred's eyes was not humanity, but an intelligence far more ancient and malevolent which only wore Uldred like a puppet.  And he has seen that blood mages are not the only people capable of revolting, inhumane acts.

     Acts like the ones he allowed, when he could have stopped them.

     Ser Carver is a good man.

     Ser Cullen is not.

#

     Cullen consults the Viscount and learns that talks between him and King Alistair are going well.  When the Viscount inquires as to his own talks with the Grand Cleric, Cullen is brief and blunt.  "I would as soon drag her up Sundermount and leave her in a spider-infested cave," he says, "as agree to any of the suggestions she puts forward for greater collaboration between our lands."

     "Such vitriol."  Bran, uncharacteristically, says this with little derision, lifting an eyebrow at Cullen.  They are in the Gnawed Noble, where they might be overheard by passers-by but they will at least _see_ those spies, unlike the ones who might lurk behind any painting or curtain in the palace.  Bran takes a sip of the Noble's ale, grimaces elaborately, and focuses on Cullen again.  "Take some pity on your people, Knight Commander.  They have not survived quite the degree of madness that we have.  Darkspawn and abominations are by-blows of the evil in men's hearts; we, however, have dealt mostly with that evil in its purest form, direct from the source.  It does tend to lend a different perspective."

     Cullen will not drink the ale.  He's seen dogs piss on fermenting barrels too often.  He toys with the mug that Bran has bought for him and contemplates whether it is safe to bring up the thing in his mind.  Bran is not his friend -- Bran is no one's friend -- but they respect one another.  In the absence of his usual sources of comfort, he wonders.

     "Oh, spill it, Cullen," says Bran, looking annoyed.  "You Templars are as open as a scroll of erotic poetry, and not half so pleasant to read.  It's clear something is troubling you, so talk."

     Cullen grinds his teeth, then sighs.  "You are aware of the things that went on in the Gallows under Meredith," he says.  And then in case Bran is not, he offers, with some delicacy:  "There were... abuses."

     "Hmm, yes," says Bran.  "Templars making free with the Rite of Tranquility on Harrowed mages, blood mages buggering recruits left and right, lyrium smuggling, that sort of thing."

     Cullen winces.  "I was... _aware of_ some of these... abuses."  He darts a look at Bran and waits for the recriminations.

     "I should hope you were."

     "...Pardon?"

     Bran looks skeptical.  "A Knight Captain who did _not_ know then what was going on right under his nose would be incompetent," he says, "and Kirkwall does not need an incompetent Knight Commander in charge of the Gallows now."

     "That may be so," Cullen admits, reluctantly.  "But I..."  He looks at his ale.  That makes it easier.  "I did nothing to stop them.  Though there were times when I might have."

     Bran sighs.  "Maker, I hope Carver comes back soon.  You're far less maudlin when you're getting regular sex."  But when Cullen glares at him, he relents and grows serious.  "I should also hope that you are competent enough to _choose your battles_ , Cullen.  You stood for the mages when it counted, did you not?  When you could save the most lives.  Sometimes the few must be sacrificed so that the many can go forward.  That is an unfortunate and unpleasant fact of leadership, which you might as well come to terms with if you have not already."

     "It is different," Cullen says, feeling himself grow hot with anger, "to sacrifice men who willingly and knowingly face danger in the service of a greater cause.  It is another thing altogether to sacrifice -- "

     And now he cannot say it.  But he remembers.

     He remembers calling Karras into his office, and pointing out to him that several Templars' patrols through certain parts of the Gallows had been taking exceptionally long, Karras' included.  He also showed Karras a list of peculiar mages' injuries from a recent spirit healer report.  He remembers lecturing the man about the importance of appearances, about how Templars were supposed to be above base vulgarities.  He remembers Karras looking annoyed rather than uncomfortable throughout the conversation, and finally interrupting Cullen to say, "Right, ser.  Just the blood mages, then."

     He remembers staring at Karras, more affronted by the man's cheek than what he'd actually said.

     Because.  Well.  They _were_ blood mages.  They should have been grateful that Meredith even allowed them to live.

     So Cullen remembers sighing and saying, "For the Maker's sake, just use some damned _discretion_.  Whatever you do, I don't want to know about it.  It is not to trouble the Knight Commander.  Do you understand?"

     Karras had grinned.  And he had indeed been discreet from there forth. 

     "I did allow it," Cullen says.  It is a whisper.  Only the ale hears it clearly.  "I did."

     Bran is silent for awhile.  Then he says, with a degree of gentleness that Cullen can hardly credit, "A Knight Captain who tried too hard to stop such abuses would be _dead_ , Cullen.  That is how these things work, you know, once they get going.  Men who get used to that sort of power do not give it up willingly."

     Cullen clenches his teeth until he hears them grind.  " _Carver_ has stopped it."  There are still cases, of course, here and there -- but those are exceptions, now.  Not the epidemic that raged then.

     "Yes," says Bran, still gently.  "Because he has the backing of his Knight Commander."

#

     He waits near Alain's apartment as evening approaches, and not long after sunset sees a familiar dark figure coming down the narrow street.  When Cullen steps forward Alain freezes, his eyes wide, the whites very white.  Only belatedly does it occur to Cullen that perhaps wearing his armor, and looming out of the shadows with unclear intent, brings up unpleasant associations for the man.

     "Peace," Cullen says quickly, and after a moment Alain makes a visible effort to calm himself.  "I want only to talk."

     Alain says nothing for a moment.  "I suppose you've changed your mind?"

     "No.  Just... please, may we go inside?"

     So they do.  This time Alain does not sit, though he also does not reach for the staff that Cullen notices sitting dusty in a corner.  As before, he waits.

     "I..."  Cullen is not sure what he needs to say, only that he needs to say it.  He cannot meet Alain's eyes, this man whom he has harmed so.  But he must confess, and he knows now that the Chantry will never give him the absolution he craves.  "I'm sorry."

     Alain sounds confused.  "For what?"

     He must say it.  "I knew."  Say it.  "About... Karras.  I... knew."

     "Ah."  Now Alain sounds weary again.  "Yes, I guessed that a long time ago."

     Of course he did.  Cullen licks his lips.  "I.  The things he did.  Alrik.  All of it.  I... _let_ those things happen."

     When Alain does not respond, Cullen finally forces his gaze upward.  Alain's just standing there with that awful heavy expression again.  Now, though, there is a hint of anger, too.

     "Yes," he says to Cullen.  "You did.  And?"

     "What?"

     "What do you want to hear, Knight Commander?  That I forgive you?  I don't.  That I understand?  I _don't_."  Alain shrugs.  "I don't even know why you didn't kill me, the other day.  If you hate me so much -- "

     "I don't!"  But that is a lie.  Because what is hatred, if not the supreme indifference of one mortal soul to another's suffering?  Cullen closes his eyes.  "...Anymore.  I... have tried to become a better person, since."

     Behind the shield of his closed eyelids, he hears Alain sigh.

     "Well," Alain says.  "Good luck with that."

     He sounds sincere.  That's the worst of it.

     "Is there anything else, Knight Commander?"

     _Help me be a good person again._   But no.  He has already taken too much from this man.  He has no right to demand more.

     "No," says Cullen.  "I just... wanted to say that.  My apologies for..."  It's all pointless.  He stops trying to be polite and finally just nods.  "I'll not trouble you again."

     Alain doesn't look at him as he leaves.  Cullen is glad for that, at least.

#

     A few days later, the party that went to Kinloch returns to Denerim.  Carver is dusty and tired-looking and smiling as he comes into the guest suite, but he takes one look at Cullen's face and sobers.

     Then he comes over to sit on the couch beside him, and says, "Tell me."

     So Cullen does.  He stints nothing, speaking of Alain and Karras and everything else, even though he knows that he will lose Carver after this. He has seen Carver kill over what Cullen has done, and perhaps Carver will try to kill him now.  If so, Cullen decides, he will not fight back.  He is tired.  He only hopes that Carver does not feel too much disgust for having given his bed and his heart to something as foul as Cullen.

     After he finishes talking, Carver says nothing for a long while.  Then he gets up, not looking back at Cullen, and leaves the suite.

     Cullen sits there, alone in the dark, for the rest of the evening.

#

     In the morning he wakes, stiff and sore and groggy because he didn't take off his armor before letting himself fall asleep sitting up on the couch.  But his muddle clears instantly, because Carver is sitting in the chair across from him.  He, too, is still wearing his armor; he's still dusty.  He's sitting forward with his arms propped on his knees, and Cullen thinks maybe he's been there for awhile, watching Cullen sleep.

     "Here," he says, standing and extending a hand to Cullen.  Cullen lets himself be pulled up, though he is tense.  Anticipating.  He doesn't know how Alain did this so calmly.

     Carver does not, however, kill him.  Or hit him.  Or speak, even.  All he does is start unbuckling Cullen's armor, as they have done a thousand times now; his fingers move quickly, long used to the routine.  When he gets the armor and undergarments off, he holds out his own arms, and Cullen obediently unbuckles him in return.  It is deceptively normal.  Comfortingly _same_ , even though nothing between them really can be, ever again.

     Carver pulls him into the suite's bath chamber, where servants have apparently been in to pour a hot bath.  Cullen sits on the stool where Carver bids him, and washes while Carver does the same thing beside him, because that's how it's supposed to be done.  Carver rinses them both and then pulls Cullen into the bath with him.  Once they're settled, he shifts them so that Cullen is leaning against the wall of the tub, and Carver is sitting between his legs, back resting against Cullen's chest.

     Cullen puts his arms around Carver, because Carver still seems willing to allow this.  For now.  So they sit there awhile, Cullen breathing the familiar scent of Carver's hair, and taking none of his usual comfort from it.

     "I did it, too," Carver says, finally.

     The words, so suddenly after silence, catch Cullen by surprise.  "What?"

     "Looked the other way.  Pretended I didn't see what I know damn well I _did_.  I never put my hands on a mage myself, but I know who did, and I didn't stop them.  Not all of them."  He sighs, heavily.  "I walked out last night because when you said what you did, I realized... I've _always_ known you let that mess happen.  It was Meredith's watch, sure, but _of course_ you helped.  I just didn't want to think about it.  I've been looking the other way, again, all this time."

     These words make Cullen twitch.  He feels as if he has won Carver through false pretenses.  "I thought I was a good man," he whispers into Carver's hair.

     "Cullen."  Carver squeezes his arms; Cullen fights the urge to weep.  "You were just _wrong_.  Me, too.  Wrong as _sin_ \-- and it's because everybody, all your life, has been telling you that wrong is right and up is down.  I _grew up with_ mages and I still swallowed the bullshit.  It's not just you.  It's not even Kirkwall."  He shifts against Cullen's pectoral, sloshing water in his frustration.  " _The whole fucking Chantry_ is wrong on this."

     And abruptly, years belated, Cullen realizes he has never seen Carver pray.

     "So here's the question you gotta ask," Carver says, and he takes a deep breath.  Cullen realizes, feeling Carver's back stiff against him, that Carver is tense.  Why?  He cannot guess.  "What are you going to do about it?"

     Cullen shifts, uncomfortable.  "I tried to apologize -- "

     Carver makes a derisive sound.  " _Sod_ that.  Nobody needs your fucking _guilt_.  But there is something you've got, that mages need.  That _all of us_ need, if we're ever going to end this fucking war."  He strokes Cullen's arms, kisses the inside of one bicep.  Cullen allows himself a measure of hope; Carver would not touch him so affectionately if he meant to leave, would he?

     "How are you going to make things better?"  Carver asks.

     _What?_

     At Cullen's confused silence, Carver sits up and turns to face him.  Cullen feels flensed by his gaze, which is hard and sharp like cut aquamarines.  He realizes this question has additional layers of meaning.  One of them is, _How are you going to become the kind of man I can live with, without lying to myself?_

     Because Carver _will_ leave him, if Cullen doesn't change.

     "You _can_ make things better, you know."  Carver speaks softly, unlike those terrible hard eyes of his.  All the love is in his voice, all the conviction is in his face.  "You have that power.  Just look what you've done for the Gallows alone, once you decided what had to be done -- and you weren't even trying to really help mages, I know.  You were just trying to stop Meredith.  And help _me_."  He sighs a little, and Cullen feels guilty again before remembering that _nobody needs your fucking guilt_.

     Alain does not need his guilt, either, or his apologies.  Those are less than useful.  But what Alain _does_ need is what Cullen has already done in letting him go to live his life in peace.  Alain did not thank him for that -- but then, Alain shouldn't have.  Cullen hadn't been doing him a favor.  He had been repaying a debt.

     He considers Carver's question. 

     _Everything is wrong.  The Chantry is wrong._   Yes.  That is where he must begin.

     Because what good is regret, if one does not _use_ it?

#

     Cullen walks into the Chantry's meeting room and inclines his head to the Grand Cleric and her entourage.  "Apologies for my absence yesterday," he says, nodding briskly.  "My Knight Captain returned from Kinloch yesterday, and it was urgent that he and I confer on an important matter."

     He can all but hear the titters that the Minor Functionary and the Arling barely manage to suppress, and he can almost feel the weight of the Grand Cleric's disapproving gaze.  It makes him smile, and that makes everyone else in the room frown. 

     Then Cullen draws from his satchel the scroll that he and Carver spent all of yesterday writing and copying.  It is not complete, of course.  Cullen will need to confer with the Gallows' mages when he returns to Kirkwall.  And he will send a copy of the scroll to every other Knight Commander in Thedas, and Cassandra Penteghast of the Seekers of Truth, and any Feather cells he can reach through channels -- and the Champion, if Carver can find some way to contact his brother.  Maybe the Hero of Ferelden, since she is a former Circle Mage herself; perhaps he'll even solicit suggestions from Tevinter's magister lords, since they are after all Andrasteans too.  When the document is complete, he will send it to the White Divine in Val Royeaux.  She will likely use it to wipe herself -- but they must take _some_ step forward, however small, if there is to be any progress.

     "Mages cannot be treated the same as ordinary -- as people without magic," Cullen begins, sitting down.  "This everyone understands.  They _must_ be forced to master their power, for their own sake and that of society.  But they must also be protected, for we have spent the past few thousand years telling the world that they are dangerous and flawed and something to be feared.  This has been a lie of convenience, told so that we might continue to exploit them -- but those days must now end.  They can never rule over us, yet neither can we rule them."

     Ah, yes.  _Now_ he has their attention.  So Cullen unrolls the scroll and sets it before them with paperweights, so that they may all see the large flourishing hand at the top -- his own -- which reads _A Declaration of Mage Rights and Non-Mage Responsibilities_. 

     All three of them stare at it, and at him, with varying expressions of horror.

     "We have done terrible things," he continues, "and those must be acknowledged.  But more importantly, we must consider how best to ensure that those things never happen again.  The correction will be painful, to be sure -- but better, I wager, than war.  Or complacency.

     "So, then."  He smiles more broadly.  This time, they all flinch.  "Which of you is with me?"

**Author's Note:**

> Yay! Less stressed-out in lifestuff means more brain for writestuff. There will be plenty of porn in the future, of course, but porn is easy to write (for me); I need extra brain to do anything else.
> 
> So. This one came about because I'm told that Cullen will be a character in DA3, though this might just be a rumor. I hope it's true, because he's one of my favorite characters, obvs -- and because I'd be interested to see how Bioware deals with Cullen's role in all the ugly things that happened in the Gallows on Meredith's (and his) watch. I hope they don't just write him off as being colossally oblivious. Also, I wanted to write about Alain, who I find just as interesting as Cullen -- although I find Alain's story too painful to engage with directly. A glancing blow is as close as I can come, sorry.
> 
> Apologies also, BTW, for this story focusing so much on Privileged Person's Guilt. In real life this kind of guilt induces rage in me; it really is the most useless fucking emotion. But hey, thank God for fanfic and fantasy, which displaces the real life stuff enough that I feel comfortable shifting my PoV for awhile. Somehow the present-tense technique aids in that displacement; I can't explain how. Hope it works for you.


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